"Scott...? Hey, it's Mike. Listen, I know you said you never wanted to hear from us again, but... He tried to kill himself again, Scott. He started cutting up his wrists, a-and... He's just struggling with this alone, y'know? I know it's a dumb reason to call, because you two cut ties a long time ago, a-after what he did to you, but... It's still eating him up. I just thought you would want to know because, well, you two used to care for each other so much. And I guess something inside me wishes that you still did. So... yeah. Thought you should know. Sorry again for calling you. Talk to you later... Bye."
(Trigger warning for mental disorders, suicide, self harm, and abandonment)
Scott's vision is fuzzy. Hazy. Unfocused like it hasn't been since the LASIK. He vaguely wonders why, but his head hurts so much he's distracted and can't figure it out.
He thinks for a second that he's drunk. That he's given himself the mother of all hangovers. But his shoulder and his arm and his chest and his side and his leg also hurt-shit, his shoulder really hurts-and he's never been drunk enough for that to happen before.
Plus, if he's not mistaken, that's his steering wheel in front of him, through the haze and the dust and the noise and the red and whatever the deflated white thing is. Regardless of how drunk he's been, he would never be drunk in the driver's seat of his car.
Fuck. Fuck, he hurts.
The spiderweb pattern across his windshield is kinda pretty though, sparkling like that in the sun.
Blink.